


Pigeonhole

by verywell



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, M/M, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21311002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verywell/pseuds/verywell
Summary: “Oh, Haz,” Niall sighed, palm soft against his cheek, “I’m not… I’m not like that.”
Relationships: Niall Horan/Harry Styles
Comments: 14
Kudos: 130





	Pigeonhole

Harry had kissed him once, in Mullingar, snug under the covers while the radio droned with classic rock songs.

“Oh, Haz,” Niall sighed, palm soft against his cheek, “I’m not… I’m not like that.”

Harry’s lips had quivered as he grinned back at Niall in the pitch black of the night, “That’s all right,” he said, a little too cheerful, “Neither am I.”

Niall laughed, ever the good-natured lad, “Then what could have possessed you?”

“Felt like it.”

Niall quirked an eyebrow at their bare legs and socked feet, “Like not having to wear pants just because we can?”

“Not quite because I _can_,” Harry chuckled, “Maybe someday you’ll understand.”

Niall laughed again, head-butting Harry’s shoulder before snoring off to sleep like nothing had happened.

It didn’t occur to Niall to ask Harry what it was he had felt that night, but he figured it could have been the same feeling which had compelled him to kiss Harry at an empty recording studio several years later.

There was no explanation, really. Harry was just standing there, back leaning against the mahogany panel of the soundboard, legs long, ankles crossed, pen stuck in his hair. He had a ukulele cuddled in his arms, strumming the same few chords over and over again, belting out to Vance Joy.

Maybe it was the dim lighting, maybe it was the heady fumes of wood varnish from the renovated studio, or maybe it was Harry looking at Niall, doing that deliberate slow-blink and that frustrating half-smile as he sang “_I wanna be your left hand_”, stopping there and tilting the ukulele lower so the instrument resembled something else.

It did not take much for Niall to cross the threshold; a less than lucid decision, a barely formed thought. And when he next blinked, he was straddling Harry’s outstretched legs, bare toes digging into the plush Persian rug, lips coaxing Harry’s open.

Harry obliged.

They kissed each other languidly, unthinkingly, Niall’s palm steady against Harry’s abdomen, Harry’s fingertips skimming his jaw. There was nothing more to do but to lose themselves in such a moment, feeling so far away from their individual selves but inseparable from each other.

But when Harry slid his fingers down the valley of his neck, thumb stroking his pulse, Niall jerked, pulling away from the cradle of Harry’s hand, sucking in lungfuls of air, remembering to breathe.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, inching away, "Sorry. Too much. Are you okay?"

“What was that?” Niall whispered hoarsely, breathing quick and shallow.

“Honored, Nialler.”

“What—what was that?” Niall repeated to himself, self-consciously rubbing the nape of his neck, ablaze by Harry’s touch.

“You tell me.”

But Niall finally went with, “H-had to shut you up.”

“Okay,” Harry nodded, setting the ukulele carefully to the soundboard, “I’ll shut up.”

If Harry was shaken, he easily concealed it with a toss of his hair, a scratch at his chin, a long-drawn silence. Or he would extricate himself from the situation just like the way he was doing now, manoeuvring past furniture and equipment, towards the exit of the studio.

“Haz,” Niall called almost desperately, watching Harry turn from his position at the door and Niall was sorry, so sorry that he was confronting Harry with an expression that betrayed confusion, guilt, panic and fear, “I’m not—”

“I know, Nialler, I know,” Harry interrupted gently like he really did know.

And Niall finally understood what it was Harry felt that night.

As though the moment could not have gone any other way. 

Easy. Effortless. Sure.

“This isn't—,” Niall said hastily, gesturing the distance between them.

"I don’t need an answer or an explanation,” Harry raised a hand, “It's a lot. Whether or not you _are_—"

Perhaps he could be; attraction was not as simple as obeying the gaffer-tape Xs on stage or identifying chords to a melody. But then again—

“I’m not,” Niall said firmly. 

“All right,” Harry nodded, a soft gaze of knowing crossing his features, “What matters is you’re certain of yourself.”

Niall was not proud to admit that he could be slow on the uptake; that attraction could lean towards a person (in his case, a very specific person) instead of a subscription to a broad biological category. He understood how suffocating, reductive and inadequate labels could be, even if one belonged to the majority. He could accept who he was and he will make peace with who he had become_, _but it was not an easy thing to process in a span of a kiss; overwhelmed by the dismantling of all the neat boxes and identifiers he grew up knowing about love, sex and affection. 

As much as sexuality was understood as a fluid continuum, there was only one person occupying his entire spectrum now. 

“I am,” Niall cleared his throat, eyes fixed on Harry, "I just need to sort myself out first."

"I'm here if you need me, you know that, right?"

"I know."

“Mind if I hugged my best mate now?” Harry asked like an afterthought.

Niall nodded quickly and Harry approached him, steps slow and calculating.

But when Niall gave him a tentative smile, Harry broke into a lopsided grin that Niall had seen so many times before, never for anyone else but himself. It was a smile that conveyed their thousand and one inside jokes, their silly golf escapades, the dimples that had him time-travelling back to that night in Mullingar. It was a smile that had chased him for half a decade and dazzled him for just as long.

There were memories so vivid and words at the tip of his tongue that Niall couldn’t bring himself to say—like how apologetic he was for trivializing their first kiss, how terrible he felt for not listening to Harry quite enough, how sorry he was for making light of a moment—a moment which Harry could have been desperately seeking, a moment for a serious conversation beneath the secrecy of the covers.

Then, Harry was holding him and Niall huddled close, knowing not to be afraid if the urge of wanting to kiss his best friend would stir him again. 

His heart was Harry, all Harry.

And no category, label or flag could fully represent that.

**Author's Note:**

> in celebration of Fine Line and Narry November *screams* \o/


End file.
